{* Inline styles are used for the login buttons here because the use of #menu id selector supercedes use of selectors *}
{* here without the use of !important. Rather than fix #menu, just port pages to HTML5 templates. -- MM 2013-08-16 *} ?>

Advanced Search Results

It was cloudy.
Walking, I turned around just slowly enough
for someone to have to the chance to
tap me on the shoulder.
I imagined that it was the clouds
pretending to be ghosts
the ghosts that I haven't dreamt of
for so long that
they are nothing but small aches
in my feet when I f...

One day, she told me that
the best way
to get her point across was
in silence.
I thought of how
this looked-
rain clouds drifting
faster than we
could ever imagine
over the swell
of mountains,
the mountains expecting
nothing-
I figured that I,
maybe,
had been missing this
so...

they become the
minds of their creators with
souls of their own, souls
that continue to speak
when their poet's throats run dry
and who teach a lesson even
when their mortal hands lie
limp like fallen nests
that live forgotten
on stone....

Driving into time, her car
accelerates and crunches
up the distance between
her and me so that
you can measure
space with open arms
instead of running legs.
The black hole
that she thinks forms
between us actually strings
us together with
objects that are woven
into a patchwork life;
...

The sea water swelled
as our eyes were
glued to the
ground like the straight
focused gaze of
a marble-set eye.
“It's curious,” she
says, interrupting moments
of silence, picking up
a piece of sea
glass, feeling
its edges, listening
to its story, but eventually
letting it go t...

Graduates,
(class of some odd year),
we have xx-ed out so many
days off the calendar together that
we counted it by the years,
labeled it with names
and numbers that shaped
memories into time
instead of remembered images.
Instead of counting time
by the seconds, we let it
zoom by, our...

My library has 17 books:
1.
I learned how to lift
21 picture books at the
age of three onto my
lap so their weight
held me down
from the sky.
2.
But I could not yet read
so my mind instead invested in pictures as
guides like
a path dug in the
sand for waves to
ride and squirm
and...

Running away from equations
you + me = us
y = mx+b
in a straight line
and like any complex
and irrational
curves, the path is simple-
inflections curve to
reflections in cubed
ice and we slip on
stumbled words, a kink in
the slope where we
strive to reach infinity
like the stars drif...

I forgot how to write: sometimes
silence craves a heart welcomed
with dense
compassion- melty, warming
words that stick
to the roof of your mouth
like thick stew and
stay forever;
forgotten and moldy.
Walking away is supposed
to be liberating-
each step a winged leap
but with each
s...

-I don’t know, I just feel
in the middle
of things.
-Do you oftentimes feel
like you’re
in the middle?
-Well…yeah. Do you?
-Yes.
(A moment of thought)
I think that those who think
too much
get stuck in the middle....

I
Amid white plains and
white wind it
has always scared
you- the sky opens
to the horizon
where you wonder if
it is really there
or if it is just a
sheet of light blue
paper reflecting light and
promising infinity.
II
There is a certain
feeling to the snow
when it has a
beati...

I
Snuggled within
warm dreams, a grin flashes across
the peace of sleep
and disappears.
Opened eyes forget
the abstract reality
of it all; they say
wakefulness is a goon,
playing mind games
and vanishing acts.
“You were in my dream last night”
I say and he remarks
“I never r...

And there was no sound
except for the
picking of sorely
painted nails, rubbing
and scraping in rhythm
with the clock's
eternal time.
“Think in rainbows-” she spoke
to me in her white stiff
suit and I could swear
I could make out
spots of red freckling
the sleeves of the
sta...

beauty is the hum
after thunder-
we say there is no
perfection but death,
the moment of silence
in which all can
exist and yet
nothing at all.
beauty is reflections-
the painted swirls
blended together
by a trick of light,
an impossible illusion of
pastels and darks
broken together...

How the dead look:
moon particles dusted
over dated dresser drawers
and flakes of skin
in unexplored corners.
Death has
a sense of time and leaves
when you want it to
stay, stays when you
want quiet.
Night sounds invite
the dead-
memories stick like
clumpy oatmeal,
scarred stars h...

In the absence of real thunder
he makes his own:
painted thoughts wander
on a crowded canvas
but his empty
eyes reflect only light.
He wants to speak but what
comes out is song,
electric rain that dances
like clouds do on humid days
with the sun.
He speaks
and says “Where has my
Yo...

Doors open to sunset, the
last tomorrow-
do you need light to see?
And behind, darkness-
a burned out luminescent;
where is your reflection?
The crack in the doorway
lines with your feet
and you step forward
leaving an unmade bed
and yesterday's feeling in steps
toward an empty...

I felt a funeral in my brain-
a murmur of emptiness
forgotten in tomorrow's tomorrow.
It tiptoed, lost, like
a cat's silent
chatter across a wooden
floor.
The bells tolled, the windows
opened
letting air in.
Dust circled in the sunlight
and shadows danced
within when
...

Street lamps, placed like
stars, light the path momentarily.
I knew the road by daylight –
flowers opening to the sun and
fuzzy moss,
a drop off with
a step out of rhythm.
In the night the gravel
pokes me, my bare feet become
confused and my hands
reach to catch
a falling star.
Fo...

the nothing stumbled:
a fawn rising on a
blustery day (Winds-day) but then it
exploded into
a nothing sound, a nothing
feeling
the nothing is thick and
clings to your skin like
itchy fibers in sweltering twilight
and not even a knife can
puncture its humid
and sticky particles
a...